


Time Just Passes (But We're Evergreen)

by skyline



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, M/M, Smut, That's it, this fic is all sex and abandonment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 06:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: He felt it in the drift, how not-sorry Jake is for leaving all this behind. But he fumbles with Jake’s belt anyway, works it open with his hands, because yes Nate’s uptight and has no sense of humor and he’ll never forgive Jake for leaving, but he’s stupid-in-love with him all the same.





	Time Just Passes (But We're Evergreen)

There is a Jake before, and a Jake after.

One who is happy, quick to laugh…and one who is a sullen bastard. Both are secretive, frustrating, brave and stubborn and charming. They spin Nate’s head, make him forget.

Once, he believed Jake Pentecost would never let him down.

Then he did.

Now, there’s version 2.0, and Nate has no idea what to do with him, never has, even back when Jake Pentecost’s smile didn’t look like the edge of a razor blade.

“Why?” Nate asks, half wonder, half disgust. “Why would you want to eat that?”

Jake frowns down at his haphazard snack, globs of sriracha, balsamic, and ranch swallowing clusters of olives, onions, and avocado. There’s lettuce under there, somewhere, but not much.

He takes a swig of beer and challenges, “Try some and see.”

Nate passes, because he always does, on every midnight snack Jake throws together from odds and ends and a boatload of toppings. Sugar or spice, all flavor and little substance beneath.

A good analogy for Jake, maybe, if Nate bought into the guy’s own press.

Which he doesn’t. New Jake, old Jake, they’re both full of heroism and so, so much bullshit.

“How long do you think we’ll have?” Nate asks, watching Jake drag his fork through the soup he’s calling a salad.

Jake lifts one shoulder, grins that sharp, shattered glass grin. “Not long. Better get to healing.”

“Thought you had a new partner.”

It’s a tease, and it’s not. Wouldn’t be the first time Jake ditched for greener, sunnier pastures. Amara’s got baggage – who doesn’t – but she and Jake are history-free.

The same can’t be said about Nate.

Jake’s grin widens around a mouthful of toppings. “That an option?”

“Funny. You’re a funny man.” Nate tilts his beer towards Jake, an irreverent salute, and grits his teeth hard enough his jaw aches. “I was getting along fine without you. Have been for years now.”

“Right, yeah. I can tell.” Jake’s dark eyes gleam brighter than the stainless steel kitchen, shoulders squared, like they’re going to fight.

They’ve always been good at that.

He reaches out, fingers grazing Nate’s jaw. “Remind me. When’s the last time you got laid? Was it before or after I left?”

Nate swats Jake’s hand away, but he can still feel the echo of it, all the times before when Jake touched him and meant it.

“I take it back,” Nate says. “You’re not funny at all.”

Jake backs down, makes a quick retreat into his own space. It’s dizzying.

“I’m a riot.” He jabs his fork in Nate’s direction. “You have no sense of humor.”

He’s been told that before. The words glance off him the way most insults do now, the way he’s been forcing them to since Jake tried to solo-pilot his way into his dad’s esteem and ended up abandoning the PPDD instead.

“Says you,” Nate throws back the rest of his beer, cold in his throat, and does not think about the old days.

Used to be Jake was the only person allowed to mock him. He made sure of it, with his fists.

Nate never needed the security blanket, but.

He missed it, once Jake had gone.

Jake asks, “Need another, brother?” eyes on the place where Nate’s knuckles curl over brown glass.

“I was gonna hit the hay,” Nate replies, alcohol warming his belly. Or maybe it’s the weight of Jake’s gaze, and- no.

Nate cannot go there, again.

Moisture beads between the web of his fingers. He sets the bottle down with a firm click. “Night, Jake.”

He doesn’t call him Ranger, which is as much of a peace offering as Nate can muster.

Jake lays his fork across his travesty of a snack and replaces it with his own beer. He takes a big swig, for courage. It seems that way, once he stops, drags his free hand across his lips and says, “Don’t go.”

“Why the fuck would I stay?”

Jake edges in closer, pins him between the metal surface of the island and the warm, dangerous angles of his body. “It was never about you.”

“You, leaving? I know that.” Nate doesn’t quite spit the words, but he believes them.

He’s spent years, forcing himself to believe that Jake’s reasons for abandoning the program begin and end with daddy issues, working in tandem with a healthy sense of self-centered egotism.

“Then why are you still ticked off? We saved the day. We’re the big damn heroes.” Jake’s breath is a ragged pant against Nate’s neck, on his lips. Nate can taste him, bitter and tangy, and oh, this is not going to end well.

He tenses up, every muscle withdrawing from Jake’s warmth, and says, carefully, “So we did. You going to jump ship again?”

“Right.” Jake straightens, on hundred and ten percent haughty. Vindicated. “This _is_ about my leaving.”

“This is about how I still don’t trust you. Just because we had one good day-“

“Doesn’t mean I’ve learned my lesson?” Jake nods, as though he expected nothing less from self-righteous Nate Lambert.

But he doesn’t back down.

Of course he doesn’t. Jake’s a bullheaded prick.

Nate sighs, idly wondering how he got into this mess. He dons his most patient instructor voice, the one he uses with new recruits. He replies, “No. That’s not what I meant.”

Something like annoyance twitches across Jake’s face. He’s never loved being condescended to.

That’s probably why Nate’s doing it.

“Yeah, it is,” Jake retorts, tucking his irritation away. He gives Nate a sunny grin. “And you’re not wrong. Getting the fuck out sounds pretty good.”

Nate blinks. This is too easy. Why is Jake making it easy?

Why isn’t he sauntering away?

He gets his answer a beat later, when Jake leverages his thigh between Nate’s legs, too close to where Nate wants it.

“Only, it’s not an option, is it?”

Nate doesn’t know if Jake’s talking about them or the kaiju, and he’s so close to not caring. A centimeter is all it would take, the tiniest twitch and he’d be throwing himself on Jake’s mercy. He inclines his face close, tells him, “Do what you want.”

“I want you not to go,” Jake says, sounding like he’s swallowed crushed glass. He’s got no right to sound so gutted, and Nate’s irrationally pissed off.

This is how it always goes for them. Always.

Nate can already sense the fire of bad decisions, crackling to life inside of him. He needs to leave. Now.

He needs to leave, which is why, without thinking, he says, “Why? What happens if I stay?’

They’re magic words. Challenge words. Jake has him pressed up against hard metal edges before they’ve completely left his tongue.

Jake smiles crookedly, less sharp, and more honest affection, edged with all that hurt. “What do you think?”

Nate wants to kiss the smile off his face, because there’s never once been a time he hasn’t wanted to kiss the smug, stupid beautiful boldness out of Jake fucking Pentecost.

So he does. He kisses Jake.

Or Jake kisses him.

One moment, his heart is thundering inside his chest with all the subtlety of a rampaging kaiju, and the next, he’s got his mouth locked against this friend-enemy-wet dream of a man-boy that he’s missed more than he knows how to express.

It’s more of a mindfuck than their first, post-war drift, a snap-crackle of lightning that resonates in his bones. Jake is game for it, leans in to taste Nate, breathing hops and vinegar and low-level heat in his lungs.

And Nate knows he’s an idiot, knows this won’t end anything short of apocalyptic.

He felt it in the drift, how not-sorry Jake is for leaving all this behind. But he fumbles with Jake’s belt anyway, works it open with his hands, because yes Nate’s uptight and has no sense of humor and he’ll never forgive Jake for leaving, but he’s stupid-in-love with him all the same.

He’s been holding his breath for a decade, waiting for this to happen again.

Jake moans into Nate’s mouth, arches against his callused palms. He mumbles, soft, sweet, desperate things. Nate can’t catch the words, but he swallows them down, touches his tongue to Jake’s and grabs him by the hips. They’re pressed flush against the lines of each other’s bodies, and there’s no way to stop now.

This is happening, this was always going to happen, since the moment when Jake strolled back on base like he owned the place.

Nate twists his arm, performs gymnastics to get a grip on Jake. He palms over strained fabric and latches onto Jakes’ throat, mouth over the increasingly unsteady undulation of his breath. He works the belt free, but then gets distracted. It’s like he can’t keep his hands to himself, moving them over Jake’s cock beneath that uniform, up, to his flat, muscled stomach, around to his ass, and then back to the shape of him.

Nate needs to touch him everywhere, to touch everything, because fuck knows they’ll screw this up, somehow. Some way. They always do.

He might never get this again.

Jake groans against him, exploring the angles of Nate’s back and on downward, gripping his hips in a way that Nate wants to leave bruises. When his hands dare to go lower still, bold against Nate’s tailbone, searching, Nate makes a noise that borders on embarrassing.

Jake’s pants fall down around his knees, stubborn zipper finally falling victim to Nate’s fumbling fingers. He grins, creating space between them, his teeth bright and white in the dark night. Then, with a laugh, Jake strips Nate of his uniform button down and the regulation tee beneath.

Nate’s nipples harden against the cold, but he barely notices. Jake strips off his own shirt, shoves down his underwear. For a single, stunning moment, Nate gets to watch. He gets to see Jake, naked and vulnerable against all the industrial steel around them.

But then Jake’s back in control. He turns Nate against the counter, cold metal cutting into Nate’s bare hips. His own belt catches on the lip of the counter, but he barely notices. He gasps, tries to strain back against Jake’s heat.

Jake laughs into the curve of Nate’s shoulder, schoolboy joy that he never quite lost. He deftly reaches around Nate’s stomach, fingers playing downward, to undo his belt, his fly, his pants. They slide down Nate’s thighs, followed quickly by his boxers.

His dick arches against his stomach, free and throbbing. It’s so fucking cold here, inside the base, the air conditioning blasting against the steamy humidity outside. Nate shivers and wants to warm up, from the inside out. He doesn’t get that – only Jake’s hand, stroking down him inch by tantalizing inch.

Nate moans, “Stop teasing.”

Jake lets go. His hands trek across Nate’s sternum, down, digging into the softer flesh of his stomach, the jut of his hips. He bites the intersection between Nate’s neck and shoulder and murmurs, “Make me.”

And all the while it’s that slow drag, the torturous hitch of lethargic rhythm; Jake’s cock caught between the cleft of Nate’s cheeks.

“I’m not begging,” Nate snipes, pushing back against Jake’s hips, this close to the friction he wants.

Jake’s lips skim against Nate’s throat. “Not yet.”

Not ever. Nate won’t beg, won’t bend. He’s stuck between a rock and Jake’s hardness, thick and hot and, shit – _there_. That’s where he wants it.

Jake stretches him with the kind of care that he rarely takes, and he’s doing it on purpose, trying to break Nate into pieces. Jake has always liked getting it hard and deep and slow, and he knows Nate doesn’t, knows Nate wants it fast and brutal, wham-bam-thank-you-sir. That’s why he’s torturing him, dragging it out.

He fucks Nate on his fingers so soft and so sweet, it’s like the first time.

Not theirs. That was a hot, sticky mess that still gives Nate wet dreams – but somebody’s.

And then, when Nate’s ready, when he’s shaking from how hard he wants it, Jake replaces the twist of his knuckles with the length of his dick, sinking into Nate as if he belongs there.

He does, Nate thinks, can’t help but think. He bows his head to his chest, says, “Missed this,” before he can stop himself.

Behind him, Jake stills. Then, softly, “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s different now, though. Every twitch of Jake’s hips against him is different from how it used to be. They were kids, back when.

Kids who wanted to be heroes, to do something meaningful with their lives, but. _Young_.

Now, they’re exactly who they wanted to be, however circuitous the route they took to get here. They fight monsters.

It’s too hard to fight this, too.

Easier to give in, to find solace in each other. To lean his head back against Jake’s shoulder and gasp, “You feel incredible.”

Stars salt the sky, distant and dim, and nowhere near as tangible as the man standing behind him.

Jake mouths at the shape of Nate’s ear. He growls a little sound, fucks into Nate harder. Says, “Show me.”

So Nate does, bucking back against Jake, hard. He gives as good as he gets, grinding deep-seated groans from Jake’s ribcage, drowning out his own breath-sounds.

Jake bends him fully over the counter, cool and slick against Nate’s front, with his hands against Nate’s wrists. He fucks him with the kind of focused intensity he brings to battle, guessing and knowing everything Nate likes.

Nate shatters under the attention, sobs out Jake’s name and comes in streaks against the counter, the floor. White smears against his stomach, and Jake keeps going, riding him through it.

When he comes it’s quick and hard, and Nate can feel the pulse inside him in time with the kisses Jake plants along the curve of his spine.

He presses his cheek against stainless steel and waits while Jake softens and withdraws.

This is where it starts, probably. The breakdown.

They get these single moments of fiery intensity, and then Jake stomps off, Jake abandons him, Jake leaves everything behind.

Except Jake doesn’t do any of those things. Jake is not a teenager anymore. He’s a soldier. He’s excruciatingly brave.

Perhaps braver than Nate ever will be.

Casually, he says, “I’m beat. I’m going to go back to your room.”

Nate frowns, confused. He watches while Jake yanks his pants back up, covering his spent cock. He pulls on his shirt and continues, “You planning on meeting me there?”

Still puzzled, Nate asks, “You want to cuddle?”

Jake crosses his arms.

Jake says, “Obviously. You need a written invitation?”

And Nate still has no idea when or how they’re going to ruin this, but maybe he doesn’t have to rush to that finish line.

He fixes his own underwear and pants, rediscovers his dignity, and soldiers the hell up. He tells Jake, “I’m right behind you.”

Jake smirks, finally sauntering off.

But this time, Nate knows exactly where he’s going.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this...oh, right after Uprising? And then, with a paragraph or two left, I abandoned it. Oops. So anyway, it's been a few months since I actually saw the movie and therefore, any errors are on me. Apologies!


End file.
